


All my love is unrequited

by skullage



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: M/M, Sensuality, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 12:56:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullage/pseuds/skullage
Summary: Or so he'd heard.





	All my love is unrequited

**Author's Note:**

> im drunk n come bearing gifts

There was something to be said of love, no matter what other people had said about it. It was ripe fruit. No, it was a succulent flower, blooming only at night before it perished at dawn. It was coming h—it was a shotgun, cocked by a bartender, parked on the fireplace mantel, ready to ready aim fire. Or so he’d heard.

Seungyoon kicked off his shoes and hung his coat up. The house seemed empty, which was not how he preferred it, usually, but tonight was unusual. A few drinks, and Minho’s hand settled on his thigh. There was nothing to it, not in a crowded bar while people took pictures. Maybe he’d done it because there were people there to take pictures. Seungyoon isn’t sure when the line blurred so much, Minho saying things so easily like they were water poured from a faucet, instead of keeping them bottled. A _I really like hanging out with you, Seungyoon-ah_ , apropos of nothing, four years into knowing each other, as if it needed to be said to quell the fire in Seungyoon’s chest whenever he looked at Minho.

It was a taste in the mouth. Not a deep taste, or a rich taste, like a chocolate cake, but an aftertaste, a whiskey burn, an appetizer. It was—a blood-rich steak. Or it was nothing to do with food. It was a blood-rich sunset. It was four am, pouring over lyrics, Minho prodding him along, singing songs in languages he didn’t know to help Seungyoon with a melody, singing songs he’d made up himself, a quiet gathering of thoughts.

If Mino’s words were water, Seungyoon’s feelings were a spark ready to ignite. He only had to look back on himself while the violin played to know how he felt, Minho’s mouth lifting in a smile as he listened, as if _that_ was it, as if what Seungyoon had written in the early hours of the morning on four cans of red bull was worth that smile. The smile he’d smiled so many times before. It never got old, and it always made Seungyoon fall deeper.

He was good at hiding it. Minho laid everything out there, everything he was feeling and thinking, there on the surface, as if it couldn’t be used against him, but Seungyoon knew better. Everything they did was scrutinised, every movement, every look. Standing on stage for three minutes could be written into a Winner manifesto, without talking. Seungyoon read the message boards and forums and tweets, poured over them, really, as if they could give him insight to who he was as a person, how he could improve, how people saw him, what he was worth. 

But Minho. Minho knew who he was, and he was soft. He needed Seungyoon, that much Seungyoon was sure of, sure as he was sure of breathing, of existing. He said in everything he did, soft touches on Seungyoon’s back, lending him clothes, his lyrics that were too sweet to be about anyone he didn’t know that well. Winner was a constant in both their lives, but Minho clung onto so many things at once Seungyoon didn’t know how he had the finger strength to keep up with himself. Seungyoon wanted—

Seungyoon wanted to devour him. He was soft, like how a cloud looked, and Seungyoon wanted all of him. Not just when Minho put his hand on his back, or lent him clothes, or wrote lyrics that were too sweet, but all the time. He kicked his shoes off and hung his coat up on the rack. He walked into the dorm, past the living room, into Minho’s bedroom, where Minho wasn’t, because he was still in his recording studio, practically ran there after they’d come back from the bar, Seungyoon had bade him goodnight. It didn’t take much convincing himself to pick up the nearest piece of clothing—a sweater, even though it was summer, discarded onto the floor like an old lover—and climb into Minho’s bed.

It smelled like him. It smelled like all of him, his hair on the pillow, his sweat in the sheets. Seungyoon was hard but it was inconsequential. The lyrics Minho had murmured to him, still not as sure of his voice as he could have been, resounded in Seungyoon’s head on a loop that slowly disolved into Minho’s name, Minho Minho Mino My-no Me-no, and, coupled with the smell of him, was overwhelming. 

Two weeks ago, Seunghoon had cornered him in the living room and asked him, point blank, if there was anything he should know. Seungyoon had been careful to not act as different towards Minho any more than what was a natural progression of difference in behaviour that the past few years accounted for, so what had brought this on, he had no idea. Seunghoon had given him a look that said he knew something more than the blank, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Seungyoon had responded with, and Seunghoon had sat down and opened his mouth, maybe to explain, maybe to corner Seungyoon further, before Minho walked in, and then shut his mouth again.

He twisted the sheets in his hands, bringing them to his nose, breathing into them. As much as he wanted to devour Minho, he wanted to be consumed by him, too. It wasn’t enough that he saw Minho every day, that they touched every day, that they passed each other in the kitchen and that Minho would steal sips from his coffee, leaving the faint imprint of his lips in spit on the rim that Seungyoon would wipe with his thumb only to lick it when Minho wasn’t looking, as if maybe he could taste him, as if tasting him would bring them closer. 

Everything between them seemed to rise like steam and turn into smoke. Whatever happened in the morning was gone by the evening, only to be replaced by something else, some new anecdote about what Jiho was up to or something Bei had eaten and coughed back up, a new brand of soy sauce that Seungyoon would surely hate, a new group, a new song, a new melody, a new line. It all disappeared within hours, and Seungyoon wondered, often, if he closed the distance between them, and pulled Minho close, and kissed him, and tasted him for real, if that would disappear in time, too, and how quickly. If they would be able to wipe the slate completely clean. If he wanted to.

He turned on his stomach until his erection was trapped between him and the bed. The sheets wouldn’t smell like him, but he might leave blonde hairs on the pillows that Minho could find like a breadcrumb trail, too distinctive to be from anyone else. Minho would know Seungyoon had been there. Gone were the days they could share a bed without the need to talk about _why_ they were sharing a bed, the awkwardness drawing it out of them the way you pluck wet hair from a drain. Minho might find him, and ask why Seungyoon was there, what he could possibly want from lying in Minho’s bed while he wasn’t there to scroll Instagram with, their thighs pressed together slightly, just enough for the contact but not enough that they had to _talk_ about it. 

On some level, Seungyoon knew Minho liked him in a way that was undefined and mostly unquantifiable, as things often were with Minho. He liked Minho in a different way: a visceral, full bodied way, that started from his belly and worked its way through the rest of him in an outward wave. It seemed to difficult to deal with, sometimes, not having any way to let it out other than his hand on his cock every other night, the shower washing away the evidence, not thinking about how it could be Minho’s hand on him, Minho’s fingers, Minho’s mouth. Those thoughts were even harder to deal with, with no direction and no eventuality. All he had left after he emptied himself was himself.

It was a feeling, a shudder, a lapse of judgement. It was a whisper of a name into the dark. It was biting into the pillow to taste the smell of him, and that, for now, would have to be enough.


End file.
